If there’s one thing I’m really good at, it’s worrying. I come by the skill honestly, having inherited it from my mother who was a world class worrier.
She was full of “what ifs” and “might could happens” and she handed them down to me in a messy little package made up of sleepless nights and tied up with great big bows constructed from fatalistic flights of fancy.
Studly Doright, on the other hand, never worries, or if he does he never mentions it. Oh, he ponders deep stuff, like how to rig his bicycle with a battery and a throttle and a golf bag holder so he can use it on the golf course instead of a golf cart.
He might obsess a bit, but he never worries that he won’t get the bike to work or that he’ll crash and break a leg on the hole farthest from the clubhouse and have to crawl to safety. No, he leaves those worries to me.
His mom, Saint Helen, is not a worrier either. Even when she was on her own, raising five kids, she didn’t expend any energy worrying. She knew worrying wouldn’t solve a thing.
So, is this a nature versus nurture issue? Did my mom pass the worrying gene down to me, or did I learn from observing her that one should fret over situations one cannot control? Did Studly choose to emulate his mother, or is there a single speck on a gene that prevents him from worrying?
It’s probably a bit of both. We may never know. What I do know is that the old saying that opposites attract rings true in this case. Thank goodness.